Twenty Three Ways
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: Sherlock is desperate for advice on how to develop his relationship with Molly - and after dismissing potential help from those closest to him - he turns to the internet.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes had turned to the internet in many times of need, whether that be through his line of work - criminals so rarely remembered to cover their digital footprints - or in his personal life. It had proved useful during the period before the now infamous Watson wedding. Youtube had taught how him to fold serviettes and gifted him with the amusement and horror of discovering Mrs Hudson's off rhythm exotic dancing. He'd also consulted various websites in his efforts to perfect his best man's speech, though in the end, he'd never really followed their advice.

So, it wasn't so peculiar for him to turn to his search engine for assistance. The matter he wanted advice on, in this instance, was much harder to succinctly express. It wasn't a mere query he could rattle off in a few words.

His fingers typed quickly, dancing across the keys _- how to tell your pathologist you're in - _and then stopped abruptly, his lips compressed as he firmly stabbed the delete button with his index finger and watched as the unsatisfying phrase slipped away.

Sherlock had considered, in his desperation, going to John and Mary for advice. But happy couples were so infuriatingly smug when dishing out relationship advice. And the Watsons were deliriously happy - their recent reunion and the joy of a new baby had pushed them to new heights of martial bliss. Honestly, if Sherlock wasn't so pleased for the pair of them, he'd be disgusted. Mary had hinted on a few occasion that she was aware of his affection for a certain petite pathologist, but hadn't pushed him on it. Perhaps, as a very last resort, he could ask her to aid him.

Besides the Watsons, his few other friends could hardly be relied upon for trustworthy advice. Lestrade had been in an on-off relationship for more than a decade - mostly off by Sherlock's lengthy calculations- so the silver haired detective wasn't to be deemed an expert in romance. Mrs Husdon, who to her credit did have a vast wealth of experience in relationships, had admitted herself she lacked real knowledge of long term love. She preferred the thrill of a fling, which wasn't exactly what Sherlock was aspiring to.

_How to tell someone you love_ - Sherlock huffed, as the words once again disappeared into nothing, leaving just a blank space tauntingly empty.

His mother had tried to offload to him her unwanted pearls of wisdoms -_ just tell her how you feel_ - when he'd foolishly mentioned Molly to his parents after the fake Moriarty return. Sherlock's father had waited until his wife skipped merrily out the room, muttering to herself about her daft sons, before he had divulged his own anecdotes on how to impress women. Well, one woman - Sherlock's father had only ever loved one woman, something which Sherlock could related to - so he listened intently to his father's stories. But, he knew fine well he'd never follow in his father's awkward footsteps - they were too different - and Molly, thankfully, was dissimilar to his mother.

Mycroft had thrown a few scathing comments his way about what he thought of any attempts to enter any sort of relationship. Caring -_ blah_ - is not -_ blah -_ an advantage. That advice had no relevance to Sherlock's current situation, he had fallen far beyond caring, into a deeper, much more terrifying terrority, that he had no experience of. His brother evidently had no insights into this realm either, so despite Mycroft's superior mind, he would only act as a further obstruction to Sherlock's end goal.

_What do to if you're in love_- no, no, _no!_

Nothing seemed to convey the information that he needed. He knew in theory what he should do. _Tell_ _her._

But it wasn't that simple- it never was with the type of man he was - because there would be questions following that confession that he didn't know how to answer. After the atrocious way he'd treated her over the course of their professional and personal relationship, he'd given her little reason to trust him. His recent escapades - the drugs, Janine, the general mayhem of the Magnussen case - left him little creditablity as to how much he valued her. Cheap, pretty words would be worth nothing to a woman like Molly.

Molly was a woman of science; she valued data, real hard evidence to confirm that a hypothesis was true. Proclamations of love and adoration - no matter how loud or sincerely he declared - would be worthless without irrefutable proof. So that's what he'd have to give her, though how he planned to achieve that, he hadn't quite figure out yet.

He took a sip at his long forgotten, now lukewarm coffee, mulling over the array of jumbled words in his head - trying not to think too much about a pair of sweet, alluring brown eyes- because they posed a distraction to his brainwork. _Focus._ He needed to focus.

The coffee was set back down to allow his fingers to drum along the wood his desk, all the while his mind whirled and whipped until he assembled a phrase that - at the very least- encapsulated briefly what he'd hoped to achieve.

He had a mounting feeling of constant frustration - to have all the knowledge of the workings of human mind - but not to have the ability to express his own deepest hopes and desires. It was almost too simple, he wanted Molly, but he desired so much more than that. Sherlock yearned for her trust, for her to have faith that if she should fall, he would be there, just as she had always been for him. But she doesn't, and he feared he'd failed her so many times, she never would.

She'd shown him her irrefutable proof; she'd helped save his life even though it involved the deceit of those she loved, she teased him in a way few others dared, scolded him when required, treated him as a human with feelings and fears and emotions and someone that was culpable for their own actions. Not just a robot or a sociopath or a freak. Molly had shown him her love.

Now he had to show her _his._

The words scrawled across the screen, bold and triumphant, clarity flooding his mind, giving him one sole purpose to reach for, to hurtle towards.

_How to show someone you love them._

Results streamed onto the screen, one website offered him twenty three ways, and at the back of his mind, his old self disdainfully commented on how pathetically desperate he must be to look for guidance from the writings of an unqualified stranger on the internet.

Twenty three ways to show Molly Hooper he loved her. At a minimum, it was start, a foundation to work on, to build with.

It was moronic to look to vast realm of the internet for guidance on the most private matters of his life. He was fool in love. Sherlock Holmes was self aware enough to admit that fact. But now, at the very least, he was a fool with a plan.


	2. One

**Just a quick note that I stupidly forgot to put on the first chapter!  
>The list Sherlock is using is a real list on the internet, so if you want to check it out, here's the link;<br>**  
><strong>thoughtcatalog(.com)chelsea-fagan/2012/11/23-ways-to-show-someone-you-love-them/**

* * *

><p><em>1. Make them their favourite food and surprise them with it when they come home.<em>

He spent an extraordinary amount of time considering how to conduct this so called plan. The website only supplied him with brief instructions, no organisational help. So Sherlock formed a schedule, of sorts, of how and when he planned to do each point on the list. Most he could plan himself, but some required some co-operation from Molly. He'd have to wait until her next haircut for seventeen, and the physical affection that twelve and twenty three required would unfortunately have to be put off until he was sure Molly would assent to such behaviour. This was about what she needed, not him, though he did pine to shower her with affection - in the past he'd been well restrained just to place small, chaste kisses against her cheeks and resist the constant allure of her lips- those aspects of the list would have to be put on hold until the appropriate moment arose.

Mrs Hudson had poked her nose in when he was neck deep in collated data, piles of ideas hurriedly scribbled down on paper, lest he forget a single one.

Ignoring her quickening steps and her quiet tuts at the mess, he continued his research. When Mrs Hudson went to lift one of his tossed away ideas, unraveling the hastily thrown ball of paper, he had little choice but to tear away from his chair and rip it out of her hands.

"Sherlock," She scolded, his sudden movement startling her. "What are you up to?"

"Case," He responded dismissively, his waved hand also a gesture for her to take her leave.

Mrs Hudson stood firm, and a teasing smile tugged the right corner of her mouth upwards. "You wrote 'Make Molly brownies' on a piece of paper for a case?" She asked, disbelief blatantly growing in her tone. Coupled with her raised eyebrow, it was very obvious Sherlock had failed to convince her he wasn't scheming.

Sherlock could feel the heat of a rush of blood to his cheeks. Number one on the list had appeared the natural choice as his first course of action, but he struggled on how best to perform the task. His initial scribbled suggestions had been rather off. "Perhaps you need to pay a visit to your optician, Mrs Hudson," He snapped back, a scowl souring his face, the crumbled paper still trapped within his fist.

"Sherlock," She repeated, and this time there's more fire in her tone. "Molly is sweet girl. So whatever you're planning on doing, it better not involve hurting her. Or you're in big trouble, mister," His landlady warned, her finger pointed threateningly. As if somehow making Molly a chocolate treat must be to poison the poor woman. It stung how suspicious people were of his intentions.

"Why must everyone assume the worst of me?" He enquired, slightly petulant. It's a redundant question- he's well aware his reputation precedes him- but can't people give him the benefit of the doubt that he is never purposefully malicious, especially when Molly is concerned.

"We don't, dear," Mrs Hudson said, her gaze searching- hazel brown eyes warm and kind- before she smiled at him affectionately and patted his cheek in a way that reminded him of his long suffering mother. "You assume the worst of yourself."

Mrs Hudson pottered off to the kitchen, only the faint grumblings bemoaning the state of the fridge reached his ears, and he'd felt a vague relief that she hadn't grilled him any further. Then again, in the grand scheme of things, this certainly wasn't the most bizarre item she'd discovered in the small space of 221B. But if Mrs Hudson learned of his extensive plan, then so would his mother, John, Mary…

And then he'd have to face the reality of his ludicrous plan. And admit his feelings for Molly to justify his actions, which was not something he wished to do quite yet. It was bad enough that anyone had an inkling about his feelings for Molly before she should be enlightened about their existence.

"Muffins," A soft, warm feminine voice broke through his wall of thought.

"Sorry?"

His eyes flashed up to the source of the voice, who was half-way out the door of his flat already. All he could spot was the back of her head, but just from that, he knew she was grinning like a shark. "Molly loves blueberry muffins," Mrs Hudson's practically sang, dancing down the steps with more exuberance than would be expected of woman her age, doing her tortured owl impression as she reached the landing. _Damn._ Just when he'd thought he'd gotten away with it. He definitely needed to find a decent hiding place for the rest of the information regarding this particular 'case' to keep it safe from his landlady's prying eyes.

That was for later. Now, he had to return to his trusty search engine.

_How to make blueberry muffins._

* * *

><p>Two double shifts in a row had left Molly so drained of all energy that the short walk from the taxi to her flat seemed a trek as her feet dragged behind her. It hadn't helped that it had felt like an age long journey from Barts to the beckoning warmth of her home.<p>

Her keys jingled wearily into her lock, her body was clearly aware her bed were just seconds away, but was too exhausted to speed up the process of reunion. When she finally entered, she sighed happily, flopped out her coat and weakly kicked her shoes off.

"Double shift?" A deep voice vibrated through the air just seconds before the light flicked on and confirmed his identity.

The bright light disorientated Molly for a moment. Blinking rapidly, she smiled wanly. "Yes," She responded automatically, and if she wasn't so knackered, she'd have felt a faint sense of embarrassment about the fact she looked like a walking corpse. "Dr Saunier's mother died. I offered to cover his weekend shifts."

"She did die… ten years ago."

Molly stormed past him into the kitchen, the sudden spike of anger giving her a burst of energy. "That lying bastard!" She spat, her expletive uncharacteristically vicious. It brought the beginnings of a smirk to Sherlock's face.

That slipped as he shyly pushed the plastic container set down on her countertop closer to her. "Muffin?" He offered casually, edging the clear container ever closer.

Molly eyed it carefully for a moment before she snatched the box, stripped it off it's lid, and brought the box up to her nose, inhaling deeply. "Smells good," She sighed, her eyes flickering toward the flashing digits of her microwave. "Bit late for cakes," She said, but the ghost of a smile played at the corners of her lips, displaying to him she didn't care much for properity.

"I could make a batch for Dr Saunier and slip some more interesting ingredients in it," He joked, but annoyance festered at the selfishness of the older doctor who had taken advantage of Molly's good nature. He'd have to face repercussions.

Molly was mid-way through her first bite, and she had to quickly chew and swallow before she responded. "That's all right," She reassured, before diving back to take another chomp out the cake. "These are amazing," She moaned, her mouth still full. Her words, and the delightful noises she was making, brought him a feeling of warmth. "I love blueberry muffins."

"Good," He said, a tight smile on his face, fighting the urge to remove the crumb that had settled just below her bottom lip. He could have brushed it away with his fingers, or he could have leaned forward and_ kissed -_

"You really made these?" She asked, pulling him out of his fantasies as she swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. His overactive imagination was grateful.

"Yes," He asserted proudly. Them, and four other batches he had deemed 'unworthy.' Though, he'd given those batches to some members of his homeless network and they had given him the impression they found them more than satisfactory. But if he was going to carry out each instruction on the list, he was going to aim for perfection in each and every one of them.

Her eyes peered up at him, rich, deep brown scrutinizing the sharp planes of his face. "After all this time - " She said, pausing, and there's wistful pull to her tone, soft and light as a summer wind. With her head tilted, Molly's lips edged upwards, and that only served to bring a glow to her despite her ragged appearance. "- you _still_ manage to surprise me."

Throwing him another fervent smile, she slipped past him, comfortable enough to leave him to his own devices in her home, tossing a goodnight over her shoulder as she trudged to her bedroom, belly sated but in need of a good night's kip.

Sherlock knew that he hadn't made a massive breakthrough tonight, but he did have a quiet sense of triumph regardless of his ability to recognize there was no real cause for celebration just yet.

It was a case of one down, twenty two to go.

But if each resulted in her looking at him like she had tonight, even if in the end it didn't work out the way he longed for, he would still consider it a successful and worthwhile endeavor.


	3. Eighteen

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed, or followed, or favourited!  
>I really appreciate it and love hearing your thoughts :)<strong>

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><p><em>18. Accompany them on an errand, such as shopping or going to a market, even though it might not be your favourite thing.<em>

It was the pale light streaming through the window that first woke him – Molly's spare room really wasn't ideal for sleeping, as he'd so often complained to her– but what roused him was the tinkling of cups and the distant boil of a kettle.

"Morning," She greeted brightly, hearing the spare bedroom door open and his heavy steps, so she didn't bother to turn her head as she poured the steaming water into two large mugs.

"Morning," He said, his eyes drifting over the length of her; from her wild hair, to her faintly smiling lips, all the way down to her crimson painted toenails. "Sleep well?"

Molly smile widened and she pulled her fluffy baby pink housecoat tighter around her skin. "Yeah," She sighed, sounding well rested. Her eyes supervised the brewing cups, and her hand tapped a rhythm against her countertop, as if it would hurry along the process. The smile that broke over his face was beyond his control. It always amused him to no end- Molly Hooper, _gentle, calming Molly Hooper_ – was one of the most dreadfully impatient people he'd ever met. She was good at disguising it at work; she was kind and understanding with any mistakes that students visiting the morgue made, but in her personal life, she was often short-tempered with even the silliest thing. Her precious cat, Toby, was often at the end of her rants. Perhaps, he often mused, it was why she preferred to work with the dead.

"There's not much to eat I'm afraid," She told him regretfully, dumping the tea bags in the bin as she did. She flung open a few of her cupboards, peering at them with pursed lips before she snapped them shut again. "I was planning to pop to the shops this weekend, but then _Dr Saunier_ called." The doctor's name was said as if it was utter profanity, and Sherlock briefly feared for the man. He'd seen Molly Hooper angry and knew her wrath was nothing to scoff at. The mention of Molly's colleague had his eyes flashing back to the plastic container set on her worktop where four cakes were still sat perfectly. Wait, four-

"Did you eat another muffin?" He asked, amusement colouring his tone.

Molly sipped at her tea and extended her arm out to set his mug on the countertop in front of him. "I might have," She said, smiling sheepishly behind her mug. She gave a slight unembarrassed shrug, and admitted, "I was hungry."

"I take it as a compliment to my baking," He said primly, taking a gulp of his warm tea. He'd never tell anyone - Mrs Hudson would take as a personal insult – but Sherlock favoured Molly's cup of tea over anyone else's.

"You should. They really are rather good," She complimented, her brown eyes darting playfully. "Is this what you've turned to in order to fill your time? Baking confectionaries?"

"Don't tell John and Lestrade," He said, grinning mischievously, before he pretended to eye her seriously. "They'll give me some ridiculous nickname," He stated gravely, his nose scrunched in disgust.

Molly snorted, and a peal of giggles followed. "The Cake Detective," She laughed, and Sherlock's ensuing groan told her exactly what he thought of that moniker. Her chuckles died away, and she once again glared back to her empty cupboards. "But seriously, if you were hoping for a decent breakfast you'll be disappointed. I can nip to the shops, if you're willing to wait for –"

The number eighteen shot through his brain and fired words out his mouth, "No!" Sherlock exclaimed, a bit louder than he'd intended. "I mean, I'll come with you," He clarified, hands clasped at his back, his fingers tangling nervously.

Molly peered up at him warily. "You don't have to," She assured, draining the rest of her tea and then proceeded to dump the mug into her sink.

"I can help," He said, trying to appear earnest.

"With what?"

"I don't know," He said, a tiny bit of frustration seeping through. He hadn't written the damn list. "Carrying the bags."

Molly's lips thinned, but Sherlock couldn't be sure she wasn't just trying to suppress a smile."I can carry my own bags."

"I see."

"I'm kidding, Sherlock," She said, dimples appearing in her cheeks as she beamed up at him. "I need to have a quick shower, and then we can go?"

Sherlock nodded, trying not to appear too eager.

Only when the sound of Molly's soft, cheerful humming echoed over the spray of water did he allow himself a moment to recognize his own victory. By the end of the day, he'd be able to tick another off the list. Even he could acknowledge that was speedy progress, helped along by a stroke of luck, but it was still something to be pleased about.

Toby, who was now grumpily perched at the end of the spare room bed, appeared to disagree. The cat glared at him as he changed clothing, yellow eyes blazing into him with heavy contempt. Normally they were on friendly-ish terms, but the feline obviously sensed Sherlock's scheming and heavily disapproved.

Sherlock smirked smugly at Molly's beloved pet.

The smirk soon dropped when he had the realization he was gloating to a _cat._ About _going grocery shopping._

Luckily, for him, and for Toby, Molly's voice called out to ask if he was ready before he gave in to the urge to google _'how to get a cat to stop looking at you like you're an idiot.'_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock." <p>

"Molly." 

They both faced each other in a combative stance, their non-verbal argument raging, the bright supermarket aisle their battle ground.

"I'm_ not_ buying it."

"But - "

"No buts, I'm not buying an electronic knife," Her eyes flashed up dangerously at him. "And you better not have anything in my flat that you were planning on using it on. We agreed, remember, you are not to bring body parts into my flat?"

"I don't remember that." He frowned. In that case, he'd have to move the array of toes that he'd stowed away in her bottom freezer drawer in the midst of a collection of out of date ready meals.

"Well we did," She said, her nose in the air, chin raised defiantly. "So, there's no need for it."

The box was shoved back on the shelf and Molly hurried down the aisle away from Sherlock and his grumbling. The consulting detective was resisting the temptation to say something about using the device on Molly's cherished feline, but since he was desperately attempting to avoid antagonising his pathologist in any way, he refrained.

Instead, he perused the local news websites for anything of interest as Molly scanned over a display of crisps as though it was worthy of her intrigue.

"No cases?" She asked, still staring at the colourful packets, brow furrowed as though she was contemplating a difficult decision. Her eyes then flickered up to him and back down to the mobile in his hand.

"Nope," He said, emphasising the 'p' with a popping sound. "It's been a quiet month."

Molly scoffed at his phrase while grabbing a random selection of lone crisp packets and tossing them into her trolley. "Quiet," She muttered, shaking her head, an edge to her tone. "You take down a rogue terrorist group pretending to be James Moriarty and you call that a _quiet _month?"

He smirked at her, looking more like Sherlock Holmes 'The Consulting Detective,' the over exaggerated persona, rather than the real man. "That was child's play," He said loftily.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Come on," She said, her tone sounding weary, but her bright eyes spoke of amusement. "I need biscuits."

He followed after her, catching up within a few long strides. He smirked down at her. "You know, for a doctor, you have a pretty terrible diet," He gibed, his eyes skimming over the trolley packed with sweet treats.

"Says the man who doesn't eat for days," She replied drily, unbothered. "And who thinks a mince pie is a meal."

"Digestion - "

"Slows you down, yeah, yeah, yeah," Molly imitated, waving her hand in the air. She grinned up at him in a way he could only describe as endearing. "Well since you're not on a case just now, I got enough for a fry up for two. If you're willing to deviate from your usual... healthy diet, of course."

He echoed her haughty tone. "I think I can make a temporary concession."

"Let's go then," She ordered, satisfied they had gotten all the essentials, and headed down the aisle to the tills.

The beep of his phone stopped him stalking after her.

_**French Member of Parliament murdered. MI5 want you on a plane to Paris ASAP. Seems the French Prime Minister is a fan. -MH**_

Molly noticed the distinct lack of the sound of Sherlock's expensive leather shoes squeaking on the vinyl flooring, which caused her to turn back as she reached the tills to seek him out with a smile on her face.

Her smile faltered momentarily when her eyes did find him. "Everything okay?" She enquired, her hands beginning the task of emptying the contents of her trolley onto the conveyor belt. Her brown eyes avoided his and her mouth slipped in to a resigned line. He knew immediately that she was expecting him to race off with an abrupt goodbye, leaving her behind to have a lonely breakfast for two.

But just because it wasn't on the list_ per se _didn't mean he couldn't make it a personal ambition of his own to try his best never to disappoint her again.

"Just my brother," He said dismissively, rushing over to help her with the rest of the shopping, catching her eyes and grinning up at her reassuringly. "Nothing that can't wait a couple of hours."


	4. Seven

_7. Tell them something that you love about them, no matter how minor or seemingly insignificant it is._

The case in Paris was dreadfully exciting – John would have no doubt been able to utilize his story-telling abilities to translate the thrill of this case on to his blog - if only his best friend and crime fighting partner hadn't been so occupied by his newborn daughter. Truly, Sherlock did not blame him. As noticeable as John's absence was, Sherlock respected and encouraged his need to spend time with his wife and baby. In fact, he'd insisted upon it. _Temporary paternity leave_, they had termed it.

It'd taken Sherlock eight days to finally close the case. The deceased victim had gotten himself in deep with an East European gang that was gaining prowess and power in the capital. His body had been pulled from the Seine fairly quickly- whoever had killed him clearly wanted him found to send a clear warning - but it'd taken Sherlock far too long to figure out who the recipient of that threatening message was. His decision not to ask Molly to accompany him - which he'd debated long and hard about while she'd cooked them breakfast the day he'd left for Paris- was soon proved to be the right choice. The Seine was gorgeous and romantic under the darkening sky – but it lost the sheen of its beauty when you were considering it as a location of a crime scene. Then again, Molly was capable of seeing beauty in anything. Even death.

The case had reached its climax when he'd found the victim's secret lover, a beautiful, cunning Russian who'd been sent to seduce the French politician and instead had committed a cardinal sin. She'd fallen in love.

Her former employers were seeking to keep her quiet- her now dead lover had managed to convince her to come forward with her story to the police, to help him bring the criminal group to justice. _Together_, she'd wept, in the tiny, rat infested apartment that he'd tracked her down to. It reminded him of the pain love could bring. The destruction. All lives end, all hearts are broken. He'd seen it time and time again in his line of work.

And yet, this woman's love, in the end, helped collapse an international crime ring.

She'd offered her extensive and intricate knowledge of the group - the make-up of the hierarchy, the breadth of the criminal activities they were involved in - _everything_ she knew. To help avenge the man she had loved.

It was easy with her information to hunt down the leaders, to rip it apart the organisation from the top down. Sherlock hadn't come out unscathed - during the surveillance of one member he'd found himself in the middle of a gun fight - but he'd been left with only a minor graze to his arm after that incident. Luck, it appeared, had been on his side.

On the flight home, when he finally had time to pause for thought, he pondered over the will of love to endure, even in death. He'd experienced it himself. His mind, through the guise of Jim Moriarty, had used his love for John to bring him back from the edge. Again, when he'd been resigned to his death and exile, his love for Molly and the Watsons and Mrs Hudson had readied him to fight his supposedly resurrected rival.

Love had been his motivator.

This should be a startling revelation for a man who'd lived and breathed the philosophy that love was a defect, a disadvantage, a hindrance, but it wasn't.

His heavy thoughts, along with the dip in adrenaline that always followed the end of a case, and his scarce lack of sleep during the investigation, had left Sherlock completely drained when his feet finally found the tarmac. Working on this case alone, after being so used to having a companion to assist him, had proved more tiresome than he would have anticipated.

But exhaustion was a lesser opponent, and Sherlock still wanted to do one more thing before he would succumb to it.

He wanted to go _home._

* * *

><p>His mind was on autopilot as he stumbled his way, one step at a time, to finally make it to her door.<p>

Again, it was pure luck that Molly was even home - his mind couldn't even conjure up what day it was, let alone if Molly would be on shift or not - but her unlocked door was a clear indication.

The first thing his heavy eyes found as he staggered through her flat door was what he'd been missing most over the past eight days. Just Molly - sitting watching her telly, relaxed into her sofa, her profile illuminated by the light floating in through her blinds and he doesn't know if it's just his mind playing tricks, but her skin appeared to _glow._

Her angelic glow was lost as she quickly stood in response to the noise, casting herself into the shadows. "Sherlock?" she said, a quiet exhale. She swiftly spotted how much he was struggling and scrambled up to his aid. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he managed, sounding woozy. "Need sleep."

Molly helped him to her couch, an arm gripping his waist to keep him on his feet and to make sure he was sat carefully on to her sofa. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't know. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Hmm. Five days?"

"Jesus, Sherlock," Molly sighed, sounding thoroughly cross. He could see through his half shut eyes she was frowning as she kneeled in front of him. "Are you hurt?"

"A bullet grazed my arm, nothing serious," he reassured, though his slurred speech did nothing to ease Molly's frown.

"Who was shooting at you this time?" Molly probed, and Sherlock could hear the scorn in her tone.

"An Albanian gangster," he responded, wincing as Molly tugged him up so she could strip him of his scarf, coat and suit jacket in a gentle but speedy manner. She was still scowling, and in the dark depths of her eyes, he could read she was unsettled. Worried. All the things he didn't want to see when he was looking at her. "You're unhappy with me."

"Yes. You're dead on your feet, Sherlock. You can't keep doing this to yourself when you're on cases. Not eating. Not sleeping. It's not good for you, for your body or your _mind_." The words spilled from her mouth, unfiltered and raw, and the hands that were examining the bandaged wound on his lower arm were shaking ever so slightly. "It's not good for my sanity either. I worry about you."

"Sorry," he said simply. He tried to catch her eyes, but they were now scanning over his scraped knuckles, her thumbs brushing softly along the ridges. More words want to wrangle their way out his mouth, but his mind was woozy and slow and he couldn't find the right ones to console her properly. Convince her he'll do his best to always come home because he had the best motivation. _Her_.

"I know," she said in response. But she couldn't, not truly, because he'd never told her.

Silence fell and all Sherlock could concentrated on was her thumbs still skimming over the injuries on his hands, his fingers rested in her warm palm contently. He allowed himself a relieved sigh of happiness.

"Have I ever told you that I love your hands?"

Brown eyes blinked up at him. "What?"

"Your hands," he repeated, as if she was the one that was mentally impaired at the moment. His sleep derived mind was drunk on her touch and a jumbled mess of words tumbled forward from his unthinking mouth. "They're so small. Delicate," he said, feeling the weight of them in his own. They looked even tinier in comparison to his. And somehow, still, they overwhelmed him. "Talented. Steady. Strong," he continued, a feeling of lightness and warmth overcoming him as he used the very last of his energy to lift one of her hands and place a tender kiss on the back of it.

Molly laughed shakily. "Okay," she said, nervousness drawing out the word. She bit down on her lip, and he had almost submitted to the sudden urge to tell her what he thought of that part of her anatomy, before thankfully, Molly found her voice again. "Time to get you to bed," she laughed, still a good deal flustered, her cheeks tinged with red.

Sherlock couldn't find it in him to protest, especially as Molly hadn't pulled her hand from his grasp. In fact, her hold tightened as she guided him towards her bedroom. Neither of them attempted to divulge Sherlock of the rest of his clothing before he clambered into the bed, the delicate warmth of Molly's hand swapped for the welcoming comfort of her bed.

But he was selfish, and for a moment, he wanted both.

He snatched her hand back as she was fussing at the covers. "Molly."

"Go to sleep," she said, her thumb again making soothing swipes across the back of his hand. The blissful feeling of her tiny hand in his was last thing Sherlock registered before he finally let himself slip in to sweet unconscious.


	5. Twenty One

So sorry for the lack of updates on this. I haven't had the time or been in the right mind set for writing lately.

Anyway, thank you all you lovely people who've stuck with this story. Your reviews make me smile :)

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><p><em>21. Find something nice and likable in their friends and family, even if you sometimes feel like you don't have much in common with them. Understand that sometimes we don't always choose who we grow up with, but that doesn't mean there's nothing worth caring about in them.<em>

Normally, waking anywhere other than Baker Street would alarm him. His life was so erratic at times, Baker Street was as close as a safe haven as he could imagine. Mrs Hudson's fussing was endearing, John's constant company had been grounding, the place was familiar, but not in a way Sherlock found boring. It was the central hub for all his work and everything always worked its way back to Baker Street.

Now, it seemed, it wasn't. The shift had begun when he'd started to visit St Bart's more and more. In his mind, he identified it as the perfect place for his experiments – it would lessen the constant barrage of nagging he got from his landlady about hygiene and common decency – and would supply him with top of the line equipment. Then, Molly's flat seemed the perfect place to piece together clues – create his 'collages' of crimes, as Molly liked to call them – because the place was 'quieter' than Baker Street. It was also apparent it was becoming his immediate choice as to where to go after he'd tied up his cases.

He'd have to be a fool not to see the common denominator in all these places and why they were now favoured over Baker Street.

_Molly._

It was why waking up in her bed, rather than his own, wasn't at all disconcerting. Sweet vanilla – a smell Sherlock always associated with Molly – clung to the sheets. Even though Sherlock knew Molly would have vacated to the guest bed as soon as she'd pried her hand out of his grip, his stay in her bed hadn't lessened the potency of her scent.

Molly's bedroom was further away from the kitchen, so he, unfortunately, couldn't hear her cheerful humming, or the soft padding of her feet against the cold tiles, or the delightful clinking of cups as she'd rummage for the silly comic mug she'd bought for him. In an attempt to correct that, he flung off her sheets, spotting a change of clothing Molly had kindly left lying for him on top of her drawers – one of various outfits he'd kept here after his recurring visits during the Magnussen case- and tried to smooth out his sleep ruffled curls.

While getting ready, he planned the day ahead; perhaps he could take Molly out for coffee, say thank you for caring for him the previous night – though his memories were still a bit hazy – or he could ask her to Baker Street, where they could experiment and scoff down whatever Molly's choice of take-away would be for that night. If Molly was willing, both.

Once he was sufficiently pleased he looked presentable – a pointless effort considering Molly had already seen him at his _very_ worst- he'd left Molly's bedroom, ignoring a grumpy Toby who looked very disgruntled with the detective's presence in his territory, smiling when he heard the whistling of Molly's old kettle.

The smile faltered when he entered the kitchen, finding no petite pathologist, but the back of an unfamiliar figure.

"You're not Molly."

Scowling, scarlet lips contrasted against sleek, black hair. "Molly told me you were detective," she shot at him snarkily, her mouth twitching into a smirk. "I'm –"

"Meena," Sherlock interrupted, his mind now clear and ready to be put in to action. His defensive urge to deduce kicked in. "Molly's best friend. You met at university. You're a doctor – a surgeon if your hands are anything to go by," he drawled out, stretching out his deductive muscles, trying not to appear too smug.

Molly's friend narrowed her eyes at him, unimpressed. "Anything else?"

"You, unlike Molly, are from big family. Youngest of...four children. The only girl. Must be rather enjoyable to have ended up the most accomplished."

Meena shrugged in response, peering up inquisitively, arms crossed over her chest. _Evidently she wasn't enchanted by flattery_. "You can't have just got that from just looking at me," she said sceptically.

"I didn't," Sherlock admitted, smirking. "Molly has pictures of your wedding in her office."

Meena laughed lightly. _Good sense of humour_. "Coffee?" she offered, turning back to heap sugar in to her steaming cup._ She was kind._ Even to people she wasn't sure of.

Sherlock had considered number twenty one of the list for an exceptionally long time. He knew the Molly had a tight knit group of friends – she was an extraordinary woman and few understood the depth of her intellect and unique charm – and most of them were part of his own circle of friends. Molly had an uncle and cousins up North that she spoke to fairly often but very rarely had the time to visit, so they weren't immediately accessible to Sherlock. But this list wasn't a race – he was willing to wait as long as was required to complete it –and he'd come to the conclusion that twenty one would have to be fulfilled at a later stage.

Of course he was well aware of Molly's friendship with Meena but had quickly dismissed her as the right candidate to help tick this point of his list. Meena had above average intelligence – a woman in a field dominated by men – feisty, she wouldn't be charmed by twinkling eyes and a quick smile. In the end, while this particular point on the list emphasised finding something in Molly's family that he liked, his real goal was for them - or in this case Meena - to see something in _him_. Something that made him worthy of Molly. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to delay this one, because he perceived how difficult a challenge that would be. But this opportunity had sprung itself on him and the least he could do was _try._

_Be polite._ "Please. Black, two sugars," he replied, leaning against the counter. Firstly, before he could continue, he had a nagging question that needed answering. "Where exactly is Molly?"

"Downstairs," Meena answered as she fixed his coffee, making a disgusted scoffing noise before speaking again. "The creepy guy who lives down there came up and said there was some sort of problem with his heating. How he expects Molly to help with that I don't know, though I suppose he's not really interested in her DIY skills." Meena glanced over her shoulder to catch glimpse of Sherlock's expression. "If you what I mean."

"I do," he said tersely. Something would have to be done about that. If, of course, Molly wasn't amenable to this man's charms. Sherlock very much hoped she wouldn't be.

"We were _supposed_ to go out for a nice brunch," Meena informed him, swivelling to hand him his coffee as she threw him a pointed look. "But Molly didn't want to leave you on your own... said you were acting strangely." Dark brows rose minutely. "Can't imagine what'd she'd mean by that."

"Well, when she comes back, I'll reassure her I'm fine and you can go enjoy your lunch," Sherlock said awkwardly. The fight instinct in him, which had developed over years of his difficult adolescence, wanted to break through. To hurt, to wound with his knowledge, before someone else could reject and hurt him.

Meena glared down at his bandaged arm, which peeked out of his rolled up sleeves. "She said you were shot."

Sherlock's eyes instinctively glanced down at the wound. "It's just a graze," Sherlock repeated the same words he'd told his pathologist the previous night.

The woman's lips compressed into a thin line at his words. "People seem to like shooting at you," Meena remarked, turning on her heel to head into Molly's sun light living room._ Reads the papers then. _

Sherlock, unperturbed, hurried after her in long strides. "I try not to read too much in to that," he quipped.

Meena took her place on the smaller of the two couches; her cup perched in her lap, fingers caressing the rim. Her eyes darted back and forth between the cup and Sherlock sat on the other couch, her mouth tipped downwards.

_Best get this over with_. "You don't like me."

Dark eyes blazed back up to him. "I don't know you," she said, shrugging. Toby, prompted out Molly's bedroom by the voices, danced across the living room to perch at the bottom of Meena's feet. _Traitor_. Meena scratched behind the feline's ear, still frowning. "You have to understand, Molly is more than just my best friend. She's my family. I worry about her; she cares about you... a lot. And she's given up a lot."

"I know that."

Meena appeared unconvinced. "Do you?"

"Yes, of course," he said, brows furrowing as he sipped at his bitter coffee. "I am not unaware of the many sacrifices Molly has made to help me."

Meena shook her head. "You didn't see her after you jumped off that rooftop. I thought it was grief; how she couldn't bear to watch telly or even read a newspaper in case you were mentioned. But it wasn't, when you came back_, _I _knew, I just knew,_ she must have known. Guilt does horrible things to people, you know."

"Yes," he said simply. And by god, _he does_, he knows that guilt is a relentless pursuer, which seats itself in to every crevice of your being, like slow, sapping poison.

"It's not about whether I like or dislike you. All I want is Molly to be happy at the end of the day," Meena informed him, her stare quite intimidating, but there's softness behind it. She truly loved Molly. Sherlock could only ever view that as an admirable quality.

"We share a common goal then," Sherlock said, setting his cup down on the coffee table, allowing his hands to be free to clasp together on his lap. His gaze found the dark haired woman, more deductions streaming through his head – _two children, accountant husband, has two rabbits, currently wearing a blouse that Molly bought her for Christmas that's far too bright for her taste_s – that for once, he restrained from blurting out, because he knew to get Meena to like him, he'd have to do more than display his intellectual prowess. He'd have to show her something_ more._

Meena reclined in to her seat, her eyes narrowing at him again. "I introduced her to Tom hoping that it would help her forget about you. You saw how well that worked out."

"He didn't make her happy."

"And you could?"

"I'm endeavouring to."

"Sherlock," she sighed, and his name sounded strange and unfamiliar on her lips. "I don't know if she's ever told you but... she's in love with you."

"She hasn't," Sherlock responded, just as softly, and quite possibly, there was a tiny hint of embarrassment creeping in to his tone.

"Wouldn't want to make you feel awkward, probably," Meena said, her mouth tilting up. "That's Molly for you. She thinks about everyone but herself."

"Yes, " Sherlock said, unsure of what else to say. How to ease the worries that have taken root in Meena's mind regarding Molly. "I do... care for her," he whispered, but the words don't seem enough. They don't reveal the extent or the ferocity of his feelings, but he felt he should reveal that to Molly before sharing it with anyone else. "She's very important to me."

Meena took a moment to try to decipher the implication of his careful choosen words. "You _care_ for her," she repeated, smiling as she put a suggestive emphasis on the word. Bright white teeth gleamed against her painted red lips. "You're _endeavouring_ to make her happy," she said, and there's a hint of glee in her voice as she cocked her eyebrow at him.

Normally, he wouldn't tolerate a stranger openly teasing him. It always felt like the person had the upper hand over him. But he made an exception for Meena, as he does for the others, like Molly and the Watsons, who he enjoyed a friendly verbal spar with from time to time. "Yes," he clipped back. "Do try and keep it quiet. It'll ruin my plan if Molly should find out."

Meena's eyes widened as a giggle escaped her. _"Your plan?"_

Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back a dismissive retort, but the door of Molly's flat opened, and all three occupants of her flat – including an affection-starved Toby – perked up at the sound of Molly's return.

"Sorry, Meen!" Molly shouted from the hallway, kicking off her shoes. "That guy never stops talking... oh." Her words trailed off when she spotted Sherlock on the couch, all bright eyes and unruly curls. Definitely not where she'd left him, conked out and snoring in her bed, where she expected he'd stay for the remainder of the day. "You're awake," she squeaked out, nervously scanning over her oldest friend's face, trying to pick up any signs of animosity on her face.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, and he knew the reason why Molly was so anxious about them being in a room together. His big mouth.

"It's all right, Molls. We had a nice chat while you were away, didn't we?" Meena prompted, her head tilting as she peered at him with mischief in her eyes.

"Yes... nice," Sherlock echoed, trying his very hardest not to allow his distaste for the word to become apparent.

"Right," Molly said, drawing the word out, clearly bewildered. "Well that's good."

"Yes. Not so good, Alex texted me while you were gone, and Maya has apparently come down with something, so I think I should probably head back," Meena lied. Quite convincingly, Sherlock admired. Meena heaved herself off the couch to stand in front of Molly, smiling at her best friend. "I'll make it up to you, okay? We can have dinner when she's better," Meena reassured.

"Sure," Molly replied instantly, grinning back at her.

Turning back, Meena's dark eyes fixed on Sherlock and she offered out her hand to him. "I'm glad I finally got to meet you, Sherlock," she said, a knowing smile on her face. The width of her smile, the way the lines crinkled at the corner of her eyes, reveal to him that this statement was more than just a show for Molly. She truly meant it.

Sherlock reached out and shook her hand gently. "As am I," he replied genuinely, a tentative smile creeping onto his face. _An interesting meeting, indeed._

Molly showed Meena out with well wishes for her friend's daughter and tight hug. As Sherlock listened to their cheerful goodbyes, Toby hopped onto the couch beside him, resting his head on Sherlock's thigh.

He could hear Molly's soft humming as she made her way back from her front door, her feet softly treading towards them. "How about I make us a cuppa and you can tell me about Paris?" Molly offered, her voice echoing off the walls of the hallway. Her voice grew clearer as she continued her way down to the living room, where her eyes found her silly cat snuggled in to the World's Only Consulting Detective and a smile bloomed across her face. "Toby," she called, waving her hand at him, but the cat wouldn't budge. Stepping forward, she lifted Sherlock's mug of cold coffee off the table, and repeated the shooing motion, but her disobedient pet paid her no mind, his paw patting Sherlock's leg, as if he was demanding the detective's attention. Molly sighed lightly, but made no move to shift the creature. Her bright eyes indicated she rather enjoyed seeing the pair together. "So, tea?" she asked again, her eyes flitting over him, quickly check for any signs of injury that needed more examination and finding nothing.

"Yes, please," he answered, grinning lazily. Molly gave him another drawn out stare, her brows furrowed in thought. His reactions have all the markers of when he's finished a case - relaxed, relieved and a tiny bit giddy on his success. But something feels inherently _different._

As Molly disappeared back to the kitchen, Sherlock hesitantly stroked a hand over Toby's furry head, testing the cat's reactions. Toby purred, rolling himself over onto his back, the movement an unsubtle demand for Sherlock to scratch his grey and white belly, as he so often loved Molly to do.

Sherlock's smile broadened at the sight.

It appeared – _against all the odds_ – he'd managed to convert two of Molly's loved ones to his cause in the same day.


End file.
